True Colors (42 page)

“Maybe the tests are better now.”

“Look, Noah—”

“I got to know you this summer,” he said, leaning forward. “No missed spots, you always said, no rushed jobs. Remember? You hate things that aren’t done right.”

She sat back, surprised. She would have sworn he hadn’t listened to her. “Your dad won’t agree to this, you know. Why would he? Guilty people don’t want their DNA tested.”

“If he doesn’t agree to the test then I’ll have an answer, won’t I?”

Winona felt a headache start behind her eyes. These were dangerous waters suddenly. “Your mom and I have . . . history with your father . . .”

“Please, Aunt Winona,” he said. “You’re the only one I can trust with this. If you tell me it’s nothing, I’ll believe you. I just want you to tell me if a new test would give him a chance.”

“Does your mother know you’re here?”

“No.”

“I couldn’t keep this from her.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

She didn’t see how she could say no. It was so little to ask, and once she had an answer for him, maybe he could finally—finally—let this go. God knew that would be best for Vivi Ann, for Noah. And besides, she knew for a fact that Dallas wouldn’t go along with it. “Fine. I’ll read the article and look through the record. But no promises.”

He smiled so brightly she had to turn away. How many times and in how many ways was Dallas Raintree going to hurt the people who cared about him?

More firmly she said, “No promises.”

A week later, as autumn leaves fell in a flurry outside her window, Winona closed her office door, told Lisa to hold all her calls, and settled down to read the transcript she’d ordered. Drawing the seventeen-hundred-page document onto her lap, she put on the drugstore magnifying glasses she’d recently begun to need and began the slow, arduous task of reading the testimony given at his trial.

It was like opening a door on the past. The words brought the whole experience back to her, the sensation of sitting there, hearing one damning fact after another, of watching Vivi Ann try so hard to be strong, and listening to the prosecutor, so certain she had truth on her side of the courtroom.

Winona didn’t need to take notes. It was all exactly as she remembered—the foundation of Cat and Dallas’s friendship, the naïveté Vivi Ann showed in letting that relationship continue, the convenience of Dallas’s so-called fever hitting on the exact night Cat was murdered. And then there was the forensic evidence apart from the DNA: the hairs found in Cat’s bed, microscopically consistent with Dallas’s, and his fingerprints on the gun. There had been no doubt left after all of that, reasonable or otherwise.

Noah didn’t understand. Dallas hadn’t been railroaded or subjected to prosecutorial misconduct or improper police technique. A jury of his peers had found him guilty based on the totality of the evidence presented. It wasn’t some small-town miscarriage of justice. It was a verdict rooted in fact, and of the evidence, certainly Myrtle’s eyewitness testimony had been the most compelling.

Winona reread that section of the transcript, although she remembered it pretty clearly.

HAMM: And where is the ice-cream shop in relation to Catherine Morgan’s home?

MICHAELIAN: Down the alley. You go right past us to get to her place.

HAMM: Please speak up, Ms. Michaelian.

MICHAELIAN: Oh. Yes. Sorry.

HAMM: Were you working at the ice-cream shop on Christmas Eve of last year?

MICHAELIAN: I was. I wanted to make a special ice-cream cake for the evening service. I was running late, as usual.

Winona skipped down.

HAMM: Did you see anyone that night?

MICHAELIAN: It was about eight-ten. I was almost ready to go. I was putting the finishing touches on the frosting when I looked up and saw . . . saw Dallas Raintree coming out of the alley that leads to Cat’s house.

HAMM: Did he see you?

MICHAELIAN: No.

HAMM: And how did you know it was the defendant?

MICHAELIAN: I saw his profile when he passed under the streetlamp, and I recognized his tattoo. But I already knew it was him. I’d seen him there before at night. Lots of times. I’d even told Vivi Ann about it. It was him. I’m sorry, Vivi Ann.

Winona put the doorstop-sized pile of paper aside and got up from the couch, stretching to work out the kinks in her back. “Thank God.”

No DNA test was going to save Dallas Raintree at this late date. That was for innocent men.

Feeling better (she hated to admit it, but Noah had planted a tiny seed of doubt and that didn’t sit well with her), she wandered back into the kitchen and stared into her fridge. There was plenty of food there, but none of it appealed to her. A quick glance at the clock on the stove told her it was eight o’clock.

Maybe she should walk down to the ice-cream shop. The idea of Myrtle’s famous Neapolitan cake had whetted her appetite.

On this early evening, it was quiet in town. Labor Day was the official end of summer around here, the day tourists packed up their motor homes and drove away. Without their loud voices, you could hear the water again, and the mournful call of the wind through the trees. Locals loved these first weeks of September best of all: the sun was still shining, the days were still hot, and the Canal was theirs again.

Winona went up to the window at the ice-cream shop and ordered a piece of Myrtle’s Neapolitan ice-cream cake from the pimply-faced girl working the take-out counter.

While she waited, Winona pictured Myrtle at the window, looking out as she spread frosting on her frozen cake. The shop was elevated; Myrtle would have had a clear view of the start of the alley.

Winona turned toward it. A black ironwork streetlamp was right there, standing sentinel, throwing a net of warm golden light down onto the sidewalk.

The girl came back to the window, said, “Here you go, Mrs. Grey. That’ll be three dollars and ninety-two cents.”

“Ms. Grey,” she muttered, paying for her cake. When she’d gotten her change, she turned back toward the streetlamp. It was in the perfect spot; Dallas would have been easily identifiable by Myrtle, who knew him. True, he was never facing the ice-cream shop, but a profile was plenty in good light, when you knew the person.

“I’ll explain it to Noah,” she said to herself. “Maybe I’ll even bring him down here to show him. He’ll know I took him seriously.”

She crossed the street, taking a bite of cake, remembering Myrtle’s testimony in detail.

I’d seen him there before
.

I recognized his tattoo
.

Winona stopped. Turning slowly, she walked back down Shore Drive, past the souvenir shop and the fish bar, to the ice-cream shop.

From this vantage point, Myrtle saw Dallas’s right side.

Winona had always had a photographic memory, and she’d noticed Dallas’s tattoo when she hired him. She would have sworn it was on his left arm.

She must be mistaken. A flurry of people had gone through this evidence, the prosecution team, the police, even reporters. No way a fact like this got overlooked.

Of course, the cops and the prosecution wouldn’t have been trying to discredit Myrtle. Only the defense team would have looked that closely. The defense attorney, she corrected. There had been no team, but surely Roy had done it.

She started walking toward home, but when she got to Viewcrest, instead of turning into her yard, she kept going, past the historical society museum toward Water’s Edge.

At the door to the cottage, she finally stopped long enough to think about what she was doing.

She didn’t want to tell Vivi Ann about Noah’s quest for DNA testing if she didn’t have to.

But that seed of doubt was back, and she had to eradicate it.

She knocked; Noah almost immediately answered.

“Hey, Aunt Winona,” he said. “Did you read the article?”

Vivi Ann’s voice came from the kitchen. “Who is it, Noah?”

“Aunt Winona,” he yelled back.

Winona leaned toward him, whispered, “I need to know which arm Dallas had his tattoo on.”

“I don’t have a clue.”

Vivi Ann came into the living room. “Hey, Win. This is a nice surprise. You want some tea?”

“Sure.” She followed her sister into the small, cozy living room of the cottage. Gone were the dingy pine wooden walls; in their place, everything was white—the walls, the peaked ceiling, the trim. Twin sets of small-paned French doors looked out over the back deck and the horse pastures below. The overstuffed furniture was upholstered in country French fabrics of marigold and Wedgwood blue.

What now?
Noah mouthed.

Winona shrugged.
Ask her
.

Me?

Vivi Ann brought her a cup of tea. Winona sipped it while her sister built a fire in the river-rock hearth.

Noah cleared his throat. “Hey, Mom. I’ve been thinking about something.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“What do you think about tattoos?”

Vivi Ann backed away from the fireplace and turned around. “I think everyone knows that I’m not anti-tattoo . . . for adults.”

“What if I wanted to get one?”

“I’d say the law is that you can get a tattoo at eighteen.”

“Sixteen, with a parent’s consent.”

“I see. And did you turn sixteen without my knowledge?”

“I’m just thinking ahead.”

“Really?”

“If I
did
get a tattoo, I’d want it where dad has his. Which arm was that?”

Vivi Ann looked suspicious. “You’ve never mentioned your father’s tattoo before.”

“Which arm was it on?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“See, Aunt Winona?” He walked out of the living room, muttering something about the Spanish Inquisition and slamming his bedroom door.

“What the hell was that about?” Vivi Ann asked.

“Where was Dallas’s tattoo?” Winona asked quietly.

“His left bicep. Why?”

“You’d better start talking,” Vivi Ann said a moment later. The sudden silence felt weighted. Dangerous. “What’s this about Dallas?”

“It’s about Noah, really. He came to my office a week ago, said he wanted to hire me.”

“He’s in legal trouble?”

“That’s what I thought. It’s why I took his case. But . . .”

“But what?”

“It turns out he was interested in his father.”

Vivi Ann nodded. “He’s been obsessed with Dallas lately. Why did he need you to find out that tattoo thing? I would have told him if he’d asked. Or is he afraid to ask me? Is that it? It is, isn’t it? He thinks I don’t want to tell him anything about Dallas.”

“He wants me to petition the court for a new DNA test. The methods are better now. But we both know Dallas won’t agree to it,” Winona added quickly.

It was like getting smacked in the chest when you weren’t expecting it. Vivi Ann stood up slowly, unable to quite look at her sister. It took everything she had inside of her not to run. “I need to go talk to Noah. You should leave.”

“We’re okay, aren’t we?” Winona asked, rising.

“Sure.”

They both knew it was a lie, and a necessary one. Their reconciliation had always demanded a certain fiction, a tacit pretense that Dallas hadn’t really come between them. Now, of course, he was back, between them as clearly as if he’d been standing in the room.

Without saying more, she headed toward Noah’s bedroom. At his door, she knocked hard a couple of times. There was no answer, so she went inside.

He was sitting on his bed, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his eyes closed, rocking out to some music on his iPod. She couldn’t see the headphones hidden within his ears, but she could hear the tinny echo of music played much too loudly.

She went over and tapped him on the shoulder.

He reacted like a startled horse, shying away from her hand, but she could tell by the wary look in his eyes that he’d expected her. He pulled the earbuds out and tossed the tiny silver player on his bed.

She went to the end of his bed and sat down opposite him, leaning back against the footboard. “You could have come to me with this, you know.”

“How?”

“You just walk up to me and say, ‘Mom, I have something I need to do.’ ”

It was a long moment before he looked at her and said, “Most kids remember their moms reading them to sleep. I remember running to get you toilet paper and crawling up into your lap to wipe your eyes. I thought I was bad, that it was my fault. It was Aunt Aurora who told me that my daddy had broken your heart and that I needed to be strong for you. I was six years old when she told me that.”

“Oh, Noah.” Vivi Ann had blocked out so much of that time; it was what she’d ultimately had to do: forget and go on. “I never knew you and Aurora even talked like that.”

“She was the one I went to when I had questions. She was the only one who’d tell me the truth. You acted like he was dead.”

“I had to,” was all she could say.

“But he’s not dead.”

“No, he’s not.”

“And I have a right to try and help him.”

Vivi Ann almost smiled. Usually she saw Dallas in Noah; just now, she saw herself. “I know how you feel, believe me. I should have seen it coming and helped you. I’m sorry.”

“You won’t stop Aunt Winona?”

The question was like an undercurrent in calm water; it came suddenly and sucked her under until she could hardly breathe. It had almost killed her, the hope necessary to do battle with the justice system. She’d believed in the law at the beginning. But if she tried again, failed again, she was certain she’d drown. “I won’t stop you. But . . . I don’t want you to get your hopes up. Disappointment can be toxic if you aren’t careful. And your dad . . . might not agree to the test.”

“So you
do
think he did it.”

Vivi Ann looked at her son, hating the heartbreak that was stalking him. Quietly, she said, “Dallas trusts the courts even less than I do, and he’s even more afraid of hope. His whole life the system let him down. That’s one of the reasons he might say no.”

They both knew what the other reason was.

“It’ll be over then, won’t it?” Noah said.

If there was one truth Vivi Ann knew to her bones, it was that loss, like love, had a beginning but no real end. “Yes,” she lied, “I guess it will be.”